Page 7 of Puck Your Charity

They swarm the leather booth. A cloud of overwhelming, synthetic perfume suffocates the crisp citrus scent of my pack. It smells like cheap vanilla and suffocating floral notes. My nose wrinkles in distaste.

A blonde woman in a red dress leans right over the table toward me. She flashes a practiced, dazzling smile.

"Victor Sterling." She purrs my name over the loud music. "We watched your last game. You looked incredible on the ice."

I stare at her.

Before I tell her to leave, Lawrence slides over and blocks her line of sight. He flashes a warm, easy smile that disarms the group.

Lawrence leans on the table. "Thanks for the support, ladies. We appreciate the fans. But we plan to keep it a private guys' night tonight. Big practice tomorrow."

A brunette with dark red lipstick pouts. She looks past Lawrence to Malcolm. "You guys can't spare five minutes for a drink?"

Malcolm sits like a stone wall. He crosses his arms and fixes her with a blank, intimidating stare. The brunette shifts nervously on her heels.

Finn gives them a polite, dimpled smile. He keeps his posture relaxed but closed off. "Sorry. Have a great time on the dance floor."

They giggle, offer a few more lingering looks, and finally retreat through the velvet curtain.

The thick synthetic perfume lingers in the air. My stomach churns. I feel nauseated by the superficial attention.

I look at the empty space where the blonde stood. I compare her practiced smile and eager eyes to Olive.

Olive wore baggy navy scrubs and no makeup. Her dark bob lacked any fancy styling. She offered me no adoration. She gave zero fucks about my fame, my money, or my stats on the ice. She cared about protecting a sick kid. Her glare contained more raw, genuine emotion than the fake smiles of a hundred fans.

I swirl my whiskey. Fame means absolutely nothing. The money, the VIP booths, and the fawning crowds all feel hollow. I’m a wealthy, successful athlete, but I ran away from a ten-year-old boy because my mind remains trapped in the past.

The guys fall into a comfortable conversation about the upcoming playoff brackets. I sit back and let their deep voices wash over me.

My mind drifts back to the hospital room. I replay the exact moment I stepped over the threshold.

Right before the smell of bleach hit me, I caught something else.

It lasted for a split second. A faint sweet scent drifted through the sterile air. It smelled like warm apple pie and cinnamon. It bypassed my rational thoughts and sent a sudden, jarring hum straight into my Alpha instincts.

I frown and rub my jaw.

It makes zero sense. The hospital mandates only Alphas and Betas work in them unless they’re on the Omega-Only floor, so what I smelled had to be a trick of my nose. Olive is a Beta. Idon’t know why I keep thinking about her, but it needs to stop now.

My inner Alpha refuses to settle. It ignores logic and facts. It latches onto the memory of the apple pie, fierce brown eyes, and a devastating glare.

Chapter 3

Idrag my feet down the carpeted hallway of my apartment building. My hand shakes as I dig my keys out of my tote bag, wincing at the loud rattle. Sliding the key into the deadbolt, I shove the front door open.

Stumbling inside, I slam the door and turn the lock. I rest my head against the cool painted wood.

My apartment serves as a curated sanctuary. The walls feature a calming beige paint. The furniture boasts clean, minimalist lines. Zero clutter exists anywhere. Everything has a specific place, purpose, and order. I built this life to be predictable and safe.

Right now, I feel out of control.

I drop my tote by the console table. Kicking my sneakers off, I leave them in the middle of the entryway rug. Lacking the willpower to put them in the closet proves how shitty I feel. Leaving things out of place isn't my style.

Sweat drips down my spine. The air conditioning unit kicks on, blasting cold air into the living room. The thermostat sits at a comfortable sixty-eight degrees, but I feel like I'm roasting from the inside out. My sleek, dark bob clings to my sweaty neck in damp, messy strands.

Surviving the last two hours of my shift took a miracle. The second that wave of heat hit me in Sam's room, my system short-circuited. Convincing Brenda about a fake stomach bug got me out the door. Calling out early isn't my style.

But standing here in my living room, the truth sinks in. I feel terrible.